


partners

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Breathing issues, CPR, Electrical Shock, Episode: s02e04 Take Your Father To Work Day, Gen, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Stand Alone, Tasers, Whump, heart issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29241576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Rhonda chuckles, pulling him from his distracted and fragmented thoughts as she looks behind her. "You had me spooked there," she says, turning back to him when it becomes abundantly clear that Martin isn't coming to his rescue. "It's best you learn now nobody's coming for you."He has half a second to think 'what's new?' before every single thought is obliterated as she pulls the trigger again.And again.And again.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112852
Comments: 26
Kudos: 132





	partners

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh!! This scene!! I nearly died while watching this and immediately knew I needed to play around with it, just a little, to look into Malcolm and Martin's thoughts (and to make things a smidgen worse for our favourite disaster magnet).
> 
> Hopefully I did them justice!

"No. Stop." The words are lead, nearly impossible to force from his lungs. He can barely even breathe. But he knows if he doesn't try to talk her down, she's going to keep pulling that trigger until his heart stops. It's already drumming out of time, skipping several beats before hammering relentlessly. "I'm The Surgeon's son. He's down here. He's coming."

Logically, he's well aware of what's happening to his body. He knows the current from the Taser — all 50,000 volts — is designed to interfere with his peripheral nervous system. He understands that the electric charge is causing his muscles to convulse and spasm uncontrollably.

Understanding what's happening doesn't make it hurt any less.

He's been tased before. Back in the FBI, he was required to be on the receiving end of a Taser shot as part of his training. It knocked him to the ground almost instantaneously back then, the pain lighting him up like a Christmas tree. And then there was the unfortunate incident with Claude Springer and the cattle prod during his final case with the FBI. So he's well aware of the science behind neuromuscular incapacitation.

The difference between then and now is the ceaseless application of current.

Then, it was one and done. Five seconds, give or take — each of which felt like an eternity — and he was finished. Both times, it took several minutes before he could get off the floor (and several days before the ache fully left his muscles), but the searing pain abated as soon as the current was cut.

Now…

Now, Rhonda has already hit him with the taser four times. And every jolt seems to amplify the pain as his already aching and overtaxed muscles are forced to tense and contract further with every shock.

His mind bounces back and forth between then and now with each surge of electricity, leaving his thoughts scattered and confused and difficult to arrange into coherent lines, so the relief when Rhonda takes a break from electrocuting him to look around for Martin is nearly enough to make him cry. He decides that, even if only for the short reprieve from the white hot pain he's been forced to endure, his attempt at talking her down was worthwhile.

The thing is, as confident as his words were, he doesn't actually know if Martin will come for him. A tiny part of him — the child inside that still seeks his father's affection and approval — still clings to the preposterous hope that maybe Martin actually loves him.

A much larger part knows that Martin will _always_ do what's best for Martin. And considering Malcolm left him alone and untethered in the least guarded area of the facility, Malcolm isn't confident his father is still in the basement at all. He saw the way Martin was eyeing that access card. Regardless of his father's assurances, Malcolm suspects that escape is more than just an idle thought for the man.

Rhonda chuckles, pulling him from his distracted and fragmented thoughts as she looks behind her. "You had me spooked there," she says, turning back to him when it becomes abundantly clear that Martin isn't coming to his rescue. "It's best you learn now nobody's coming for you."

He has half a second to think ' _what's new?_ ' before every single thought is obliterated as she pulls the trigger again.

And again.

And again.

"Rhonda. Rhonda, stop please," he begs, feeling like his chest is caving in.

His world is reduced to a scorching and unrelenting pain as his body arches off the ground. His muscles spasm so brutally it feels like they're tearing apart beneath his skin, and even when the current stops between bursts, the convulsions continue, leaving him jerking violently on the floor as Rhonda looks down on him with hatred in her eyes.

"So is it true? He really your old man?" Rhonda asks, the extended pause giving Malcolm a chance to suck a stunted and shuddering breath into his lungs. His intercostal muscles are seizing so hard that his chest can no longer expand, no longer allow his lungs to inflate in his chest. His mind becomes foggy, slow, and it takes longer than it should to realize he's going to suffocate if she doesn't stop soon. By the time he makes that discovery, she's speaking again, reminding him of what he already knows to be true. "Well, he left you here to die."

The words echo in his head but take a dark turn as they repeat and distort and meld with his memories until it's the gravelly drawl of John Watkins' voice.

_Your father was going to kill you._

But then Rhonda shocks him again and his body jerks and twists on the floor and his vision sparks a blinding white as the world and all of his disjointed memories disappear for a moment or two.

"Like Jerry left me," Rhonda seethes.

Malcolm looks up through half-lidded eyes, taking in the anger and betrayal contorting Rhonda's features, forcing himself to focus on the way she's holding the Taser with a death grip, her trigger finger twitching as she prepares to fire again. Unable to move, he readies himself for what he predicts will be his final jolt of current.

Not because Rhonda will stop or show mercy, but because his heart is beating an uneven staccato against his ribs, stuttering over its rhythmic push and pull, and he has a feeling, deep down, that the overwhelmed muscle is about to give out completely.

And then he closes his eyes as Rhonda squeezes the trigger one final time.

Blessedly, the pain never comes. There's a sharp click, but no electrical buzz, no blazing spark of agony jolting through his muscles, threatening to tear them clean from his body.

"Figures," Rhonda mutters. Malcolm opens his eyes just in time to see her lower the malfunctioning Taser from her grip and raise the wrench overhead instead. Though his eyes widen in fear, that seems to be the only part of his body inclined to move at all. He can't seem to force his limbs to move enough to protect himself, to defend himself from the oncoming blow.

His father's voice, therefore, settles over him like a warm and comforting blanket.

He's only half aware of the conversation around him. There's sounds of confusion from Rhonda, and he thinks Martin may be talking to him, telling him what a good time he had working the case together, but it isn't until Martin is standing directly above his twitching body that he truly registers any of their conversation.

"I meant every word of it, son. Best day ever." Martin's smile is genuine, even with a stun gun less than an inch from his face, and Malcolm isn't sure what to make of that.

It's kind of nice, Malcolm thinks to himself as the world begins to fade around the edges. There's times when he thinks he hates his father, goes so far as to convince himself that he never wants to see him again. And then there's times, like now, where a simple smile brings him all the comfort in the world.

He hates himself, just a little, for feeling that way at all.

But Martin is smiling down at him and Dani is rushing over with her gun raised to disarm Rhonda, and, despite his body feeling like one big charlie-horse, despite the fact that he can barely breathe and his heart is beating so irregularly in his chest that it's making him nauseous, Malcolm thinks that maybe everything is going to be okay.

~~~

"And it keeps getting better." Martin beams down at his boy, inordinately pleased that by working together, they caught a killer.

It's truly been a wonderful day. Such excitement! Just when he thought the monotony of his day-to-day routine would drive him mad, a body fell from the heavens. It's as though Jerry's death was a gift from on high, especially for Martin, bringing the NYPD right to his backyard and allowing him to work hand in hand with his boy.

He really couldn't ask for anything more.

Well. That's not entirely true. The gold card is practically vibrating in his hand. He was so close to freedom he could practically taste it. If only he could've made it through that one locked gate. Ironic that he would discover a key to every mechanized door in the entire facility, only to be stopped by an old fashioned key lock.

He'd been angry, of course, but quickly realized that an opportunity was being presented to him. He could play the hero with Malcolm, save him from the woman who was hell-bent on destroying them both. After everything that happened in their explosive group therapy class, he realized that it wouldn't hurt to garner a little good will from his son.

And so he decided to work with the lovely Detective Powell to coordinate a rescue, sure that Malcolm would be overjoyed to see him.

And now, he looks down at his boy, still twitching and groaning from the current that had been pumped through his body, and for just a moment — a fraction of a second really; so fast it hardly counts — he's transported back in time to an experiment he conducted back in...oh, '94? Maybe '95? A young man, just a few years younger than Malcolm is now. Martin utilized electricity with that particular subject — nothing so crude as a Taser, no; an ECT machine with a few slight alterations gave him far more control then a glorified stun gun ever could — recording the man's vital statistics and responses as varying voltages were applied to his body, inside and out, for a better understanding of electrical impulses in the human body. It was one of his more successful experiments and seeing Malcolm like this now sends a shockwave of pleasure jolting through his body before he can tamp it down.

"Oh, nicely done, Dani," Martin says, shaking himself from his reverie as he crouches next to Malcolm, a smile splitting his face as he looks at his boy. "Did you see that? We got her. Oh, you, me, and my new friend Dani."

He slides one hand beneath Malcolm's shoulder and wraps his other around Malcolm's arm, tugging him into a sitting position. The twitching finally appears to be abating, but Malcolm is concerningly pliant in his grip, little more than a rag doll as Martin supports his body and gets him sitting upright. His breathing still sounds abysmally laboured and his head lolls back, his neck unable to support the weight of his head, enough that Martin wraps an arm around his shoulders to provide a little extra support. He begins to worry about just how much voltage his boy was forced to endure, begins to plan exactly what he'll do to Rhonda if Malcolm suffers any long term effects.

"Put your hands on me again, Dr. Whitly, and I'll blow your head off," Dani says firmly as she cuffs Rhonda, reminding Martin of just why he likes the girl for his son. No-nonsense, this one. Assertive. She'll be good for Malcolm.

"Noted," Martin says easily and then levers himself to his feet, dragging Malcolm along with him. "Oh, what a thrill! Ah, the skulking, the violence, the banter...I can see why you like it so much. Oh, and the best part," Martin begins as he leans away from Malcolm, leaving him unsupported as he prepares to tell Rhonda that she's under arrest and has the right to remain silent. Unfortunately, he doesn't have a chance to recite the Miranda rights he's sure he has memorized from watching reruns of Law & Order during his TV time.

Malcolm drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes, a solid thud echoing through the tight space as his body impacts the concrete. Martin jerks back around and looks down just in time to see Malcolm's eyes roll back in their sockets.

Just in time to watch his chest stop it's halted rise and fall as his laboured breathing suddenly cuts off mid-inhale, filling the room with a vacuous silence.

"Malcolm?" Martin calls out, dropping to Malcolm's side as Dani slaps the cuffs onto Rhonda and waves in the backup that's filtering in from the far end of the room. "Malcolm, my boy. Talk to me."

He cups Malcolm's face between his hands, tapping firmly on his cheek as he tries to provoke a response from him. There's no reaction. He leans over, pressing his ear to Malcolm's nose and mouth, realizing quickly that Malcolm has stopped breathing altogether. With a growing sense of uneasiness, he pulls back and places his index and middle fingers over Malcolm's carotid artery, feeling for a pulse.

"What's wrong with him?" Dani asks, dropping to her knees on the other side of Malcolm as a uniformed officer leads Rhonda away.

"Cardiac arrhythmia from the taser," Martin says calmly, fully in his element despite the underlying worry for his son. "The bigger problem right this minute is that he's no longer breathing."

"An ambulance is waiting outside, but it's going to take some time to clear all the checkpoints." It's so simple to read the concern on Dani's face that Martin wonders off-handedly how she's lasted as long as she has as a detective, considering she's such an open book.

It's a thought to pack away for later as a possible weakness he can exploit, one day. Right now, he has more important things to focus on.

He tilts Malcolm's head back easily and, though the muscles still seem to be cramped and tense, manages to pry his jaw open. Moving as if it's second nature, he plugs Malcolm's nose with one hand and then leans in and locks his lips around Malcolm's mouth, forming a seal that's as close to air-tight as he can manage. He breathes out a forceful breath, ensuring the air will pass into Malcolm's lungs, then blows a second for good measure before leaning back to watch Malcolm's chest, waiting to see if his lungs remember how to work after a little prodding.

They don't.

He leans in immediately and provides two more rescue breaths before pulling back again, this time to check for a pulse. He shifts his fingers, twice, searching for the faint tap against his fingers but finds nothing each time, his heart sinking at what that means.

"Uh, Detective Powell," Martin says as he shuffles closer on the floor until his knees are tucked up against Malcolm's arm, "you may want to expedite that ambulance."

To her credit, she's on her radio urging the paramedics to hurry their asses up before Martin's even finished speaking.

He really does like this one.

Unfortunately, he knows he can't wait for the paramedics to arrive, no matter how quickly they're moving. Malcolm won't survive that long. So he places the heel of his right hand an inch or two above the end of Malcolm's breastbone, then drops his left hand on top and begins compressions.

Only halfway through his first set of thirty compressions, he's reminded how exhausting CPR truly is. By the time he's delivering the next set of rescue breaths, he's already overheating in his borrowed faux-leather jacket.

Thirty more compressions and his arms are shaking, sweat beading on his forehead. With the next two breaths, he'd swear Malcolm's chest rises just a little higher, but still he just lays there, unmoving and unresponsive.

It's as Martin lines up for his next set of compressions that he begins to speak.

"Alright, my boy, that's enough of this laying around. You were never an easy child to wake up, but this is getting absurd." He's winded and frustrated and what starts out as a conversational tone becomes louder and louder as he speaks until he's shouting as he performs the final chest compressions. "Wake up, Malcolm!"

And remarkably, he does.

Malcolm's eyelids jerk open as he gasps in a startled breath, coughing and choking and spluttering on the air as it filters into his lungs.

Martin sits back on his heels as Malcolm curls on his left side with a groan, wrapping his arms around his chest in a way that screams of bruised ribs, but Martin can only smile as he listens to his boy breathe on his own, reminded of the day he was born, listening to his tiny lungs struggle to work for the first time.

Martin doesn't particularly appreciate the fact that it's Dani Malcolm turns to. That he leans into her touch as she reaches out and asks if he's okay, over and over until he finally answers with a hoarse, "I'm okay. I'm fine," but he holds his tongue and allows them their moment.

When Malcolm begins to push himself up, though, Martin and Dani move as one to lay a hand on either of his shoulders, pushing him gently back to the floor.

"Bright. Stay put," Dani admonishes. It garners an eye roll but Malcolm actually seems to listen and slumps to the ground, much to Martin's surprise. His boy has many wonderful qualities, but heeding advice has never been one of them — not that Martin hasn't tried. Repeatedly. He seems to be listening to the good detective just fine.

Perhaps, Martin decides, he likes Dani a little less than he'd initially thought.

"My boy." Martin smiles gently down at Malcolm, drawing his attention from the detective as he slips two fingers over his pulse point and measures his heart rate once again. "While I appreciate your dedication to catching a suspect, I think this may have gone a little too far."

Unfortunately, he can't always be there for Malcolm, and he despairs to think what could happen to him _out there_ without Martin around to keep him safe and patch him up when things go wrong.

Malcolm shoots him a feeble attempt at a withering glare, but the effect is lessened by the discomfort etched on his face.

"Your pulse is still a little fast, but that can certainly be explained by the excitement of the evening," Martin says, pulling his hand back after assuring himself that Malcolm's heart is as steady and strong as always. "It's certainly fortunate that you had a doctor nearby when your heart stopped."

Malcolm's stunned look only lasts a moment before his eyebrows draw in and he's pushing himself, unsteadily, to a seated position, oblivious to the way Dani shakes her head and throws her hands up in defeat at his refusal to stay still.

"Fortunate I had a—" Malcolm cuts his own words off with a ragged cough. "This wouldn't have even _happened_ if it weren't for you." Malcolm has that look about him, like he's building steam even as he sways in place and wheezes from his short reprimand, ready to accuse Martin of something or other, Martin is sure. Instead, his face morphs into a thoughtful expression as he reaches out a trembling hand and touches Martin's jacket. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh, this. Well...it's for stealth. Obviously," Martin says earnestly, looking at his boy with a hint of mirth and smidgen of pride behind the composed expression. He doesn't fail to notice the way Malcolm's features soften at the quip. "I'm really pulling it off, I think."

"Stop talking," Dani sighs, interrupting their moment with a shake of her head. She pulls out a pair of handcuffs and offers them to Malcolm with a raised eyebrow, waiting for his nod before she releases her grip on them and backs away, giving them some semblance of privacy.

Malcolm's grip is unsure, nearly missing Martin's wrists as he snaps one cuff, and then the second in place, his shaking fingers struggling to latch them properly. He doesn't seem to have full control of his body just yet, and Martin's mind immediately begins diagnosing possible side effects from repeated exposure to an electrical current. But then Malcolm looks up at him and Martin would swear there's a silent acknowledgement of a job well done behind his eyes. An admission that they made a good team.

A bubbling warmth floods Martin's system at the concession.

Until Malcolm confiscates the gold security card that Martin had dropped on the floor when he started performing CPR, muttering a quiet, "I'll take this."

"Of course. Absolutely," Martin agrees, eying the card with regret. It's unfortunate, really (and he ought to have tucked that card away rather than carelessly dropping it, but that's neither here nor there), but it's not the end of the world.

He still has the blue and green access cards hidden away and ready to use. Once he gets his hands on a red card, he'll be free at last.

And maybe, he thinks to himself, as Malcolm allows Martin to help him to his feet, even going so far as to lean into Martin's body as he teeters and trembles while he finds his footing, maybe he and Malcolm can team up again on the outside.

He always did want to be partners with his boy.


End file.
